


early worm gets the bird

by joosetta



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Future Fic, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joosetta/pseuds/joosetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles sends Derek a dick pic, Derek has no idea what to do and ends up having to cook Thanksgiving dinner as a result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	early worm gets the bird

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-betaed, and also incredibly stupid.

It wasn’t like Stiles texted Derek a lot. Since he’d left for college, which was getting on for six years now, interrupted with frequent but brief visits home, they’d started a kind of on-again off-again texting conversation. It mostly comprised of Stiles sending Derek weird picture messages of things he discovered in New York; a chihuahua dressed like Prince, a woman dressed entirely in bin liners. Sometimes he asked questions about werewolf stuff, occasionally he sent angry baseball messages, because he knew Derek followed that stuff. 

The point was; they didn’t really text. It wasn’t really a regular back and forth, more sporadic, but amicable enough that Derek usually swiped open the messages with a smile. Once or twice a week maybe, or less even that that.

So it was weird as fuck then, when Stiles sent him a picture of his dick.

The message came around half nine in the morning, while Derek was just getting changed. He’d been for a run, cleaned his apartment, had a five minute argument with Scott about this meeting of west coast packs. Scott wanted Derek to go as his second. Derek thought that was a stupid fucking idea, mostly because he wasn’t a people person. No-one who had met Derek had walked away with a positive impression of him after 24 hours. He was one of those people that took a while to get to know. What Scott needed was someone who made a great first impression, then you slowly grew to hate. Like Peter. Or Isaac.

He was thinking about that, and how annoyed it was all making him, when his phone buzzed.

Theoretically it could have been anyone’s dick. Derek had never actually seen Stiles’ penis, so he didn’t have anything to refer to, but Derek had seen Stiles’ hands, and he’d seen his stomach, and he recognized those fine.

In the picture, Stiles was hard, and his big dick was flushed pink. He was holding it in one hand, and there was enough of his flat stomach in view to see the scattering of moles on his pale skin, and the dark line of hair from his belly button down to his groin. Derek knew Stiles was muscled, in a wiry kind of a way. This was more evidence than he really needed of that.

Stiles had a big dick. This was something Derek had not known. It was hard for him not to freak out a little bit over it, because it looked really nice, it looked like a fucking awesome dick, and Derek was still getting used to the fact that he, as a person, sometimes found dicks awesome. He dropped his phone.

The phone lay on the kitchen floor for a while, until Derek was calm enough to pick it up and check the accompanying text.

 

_All for u big boy x s_  

 

What the fuck?

 

\---

 

“I’m not taking Peter,” Scott snapped, before Derek even had a chance to say anything. They were in Flannagan’s, which was Beacon Hill’s primo novelty irish bar, and the only place in town that served watery beer with wolfsbane included. It was where Derek usually met Scott to chat about pack stuff, because nowadays it was only really Scott and him about anyway. Lydia was still in Boston, and Isaac still had a year left at USF. Stiles of course, only came home like twice a year. That thought made Derek grimace and brought him back to the question he had arranged this little meet up to ask.

“No, I’ll go, whatever,” Derek said. “Have you heard from Stiles recently?” he asked, while Scott asked for two Blue Moons and mimed fangs and claws in a way that made the barman roll his eyes.

“Uh no- not since a few days ago when he called about coming home for the holidays? Why?”

Derek did not know how to answer that question. His relationship with Scott was pretty good nowadays, but not quite good enough to ask about his best friend’s dick.

“Dunno, haven’t heard from him in a bit, that’s all. Is he bringing anyone back for Thanksgiving?”

The beers arrived and Scott gave Derek a look, as if to say _bringing someone back? What the fuck, this is Stiles_. Derek just raised his eyebrows and try to sip at his drink innocently. 

“No, dude, Stiles has one relationship mode, ‘disastrous one night stands’,” Scott said. “I mean I’m sure he has fun, but he is definitely not bringing someone back for Thanksgiving. Why?”

There was a funny tone to his voice, one that Derek immediately recognized as dangerous. Scott McCall was a deceptively canny operator, especially when it came to interpersonal stuff. Scott frowned, put down his beer, and Derek realized he was going to have to come up with a pretty amazing excuse, and quick. 

“Well, uh, I was thinking of doing dinner at mine this year. You know, for the whole pack,” he said.

Derek almost felt bad about how well Scott reacted to that. His whole face split open into one of those patented-Scott-McCall beaming grins, the kind that demonstrated perfectly how this goofball with a lopsided face and a heart made of melted butter somehow inspired people to follow him to the ends of the earth. People like Derek.

“Man, that is awesome. You should do it on the day and have everyone. I know Stiles’ dad would love it, and mom would totally help with the cooking-”

And just like that, Derek was suddenly cooking Thanksgiving dinner for half of Beacon Hills. He just tuned Scott out and turned back to his beer. His beer was, at that moment, the only solace he had.

 

\---

 

Derek actually had a pretty big apartment, and plenty of dining space. He also wasn’t a terrible cook, and could probably crank out a decent enough turkey-with-trimmings. The problem was, he didn’t really like large gatherings, and he didn’t really like mess, and on Thanksgiving, he usually went for a 30 mile run around the preserve and threw large rocks down into one of the canyons, angrily.  

When he was a kid, Thanksgiving had been this magical day filled with over eating, good-natured family arguments and Peter forcing them to play charades. Derek had figured out quickly that nothing was ever going to match that and had stopped trying. 

Still, Scott had been so happy, Melissa had promised to bring pie if he did the roast, Sheriff Stilinski had rolled up beside him in the cruiser and promised to bring drinks, Isaac had nearly cried down the phone, and Derek had quickly realized that there was nothing he could do, he had to cook this stupid pack Thanksgiving dinner and it was all because of Stiles’ stupid gorgeous dick.

 

\---

 

Derek kept the picture, but refused to look at it again. He wasn’t completely sure why he kept it. Nowadays though, when he was curling into his fist, jacking off in bed before dawn, he sometimes thought about the way Stiles’ dick might feel in his palm; the hot, private smell of his skin, how fragile and vulnerable it would feel under Derek’s tongue. 

He didn’t text back or anything, but he kept it.

 

\---

 

A week before Thanksgiving, Stiles turned up again in Beacon Hills. Derek wasn’t entirely sure what the fuck he was doing with his life. It was some kind of post-grad thing now, because he often bitched about grading papers, and he was earning a salary of some sort. The specifics of his life had never been particularly important to Derek because until recently, they had been acquaintances who shared infrequent text messages about meaningless things. Not dick pics. Or so Derek had thought.

He actually ran into Stiles whilst shopping for a couple of frozen turkeys big enough to feed a bunch of hungry werewolves and their families. Derek couldn’t decide on two large or three medium. He was standing in the freezer aisle holding a sack of yams. This chilly indecision, like everything, had been caused by a picture of Stiles’ penis. That made the indignity worse really, when Stiles himself turned up in the flesh, dressed in jeans with holes in the knees and a shapeless sweater that bared an uncomfortable amount of his collar bone and pale throat.

“Yo Hale!” Stiles was pushing a trolley filled with vegetables and beer. “Long time no see.”

Derek didn’t know what to say. Stiles hadn’t sent a single text message since that picture.Not even a “sorry must have been drunk” explanation, or even a “ha ha totally got you”. Radio silence. 

“Not feeling chatty, I see. Still, it’s good to see you,” Stiles said, because he knew Derek  pretty well and was anticipating ordinary levels of anti-social behavior. “You getting the birds for Thursday?”

“Yes,” Derek said. He decided on two large and grabbed them, mostly because it allowed him to leave without any further conversation. He didn’t want to talk to Stiles. He didn’t know how to behave, and the confusion made him want to simply disengage. So he did. 

“Oi,” Stiles called out, as Derek strode off, turkeys in one arm, yams in the other. “Are you really just going to- hey, Derek!”

Derek was in such a hurry to get the fuck out of there, he totally forgot about his coupons.

 

\---

 

Lydia Martin came round the day before Thanksgiving with a bag full of things that she insisted Derek needed. It mostly comprised of place settings, wine glasses with delicate stems, polished silver cutlery, and ruddy pieces of autumn fruit that she placed around the apartment, for decorative purposes. 

“My mom is coming,” she explained. “It has to look like more than just a hermit bachelor pad.”

“I’m not a hermit,” Derek said, but it was kind of a token protest. Then, because it was Lydia, and Derek had learned to trust her to tell the truth even when it was the awkward truth, he asked, “Has anyone ever sent you a picture of their dick?”

She blinked, then smiled, looking delighted.

“Yes, quite often,” she said. “I have a gallery. Has someone sent you one?”

Derek didn’t answer, just went back to sorting the cutlery into neat little piles so he could set the table easily. The silence was answer enough, he thought.

“You look traumatized,” Lydia said. “Who sent you a picture of their dick?”

“What does it mean?” Derek asked, trying his best not to let frustration leak into his voice. “I mean, if someone just sends you a picture of - that- out of the blue, does it mean anything?”

Lydia shook her head, reaching out to take one of the silver dessert spoons carefully from his hand, before he could scratch it with his claws.

“Derek, it’s a picture of a dick - you know _exactly_ what it means.”

Well that was the awkward truth all right, Lydia was always good for that.

 

\---

 

That night, he finally, finally decided to text Stiles back. Nearly two weeks had passed since he’d received the picture, so the message was incriminatingly late, but what the fuck. Stiles had sent Derek a picture of his genitalia. 

 

_Why the hell did you send me that?_

  
  
Then before he lost his courage he sent another.

 

_Are you trying to drive me crazy?_

 

_\---_

 

Dinner was not scheduled until one, but Stiles showed up at ten, wearing a plaid shirt that hadn’t been ironed, a grey tee underneath and burgundy skinny-jeans. Derek peered through the peephole for ages at his glasses, a new addition, sliding down his nose, and the artlessly rumpled state of his hair. 

“For fuck’s sake, Derek,” Stiles said. “I know you’re there. Open up the door.”

Derek did. He opened the door, stood there for a minute, then because he was completely useless at this sort of thing, he said, “I’ve got to put the turkeys on.”

Stiles didn’t complain, but he did glare, following Derek through to the kitchen, where Derek finished stuffing lemon butter and slices of truffle under the turkey skins and put them into the bottom oven. In theory, he didn’t have much else to do for at least an hour, but because he was nervous he started peeling the potatoes.

“They’re going to go brown,” Stiles said. Then, “sorry about the picture. I didn’t actually mean to send it.”

Derek threw the potato in his hand then the peeler into the sink and stepped back. He glared at Stiles, mostly because he couldn’t put words to how pissed off he was at receiving a dick pic that Stiles _hadn’t even intended to send_. It was beyond fucking embarrassing. He’d thought that- well whatever the fuck he had thought, he’d been an idiot not to delete it right away.  

“Shit,” Stiles said, rubbing at his face. “You’re really mad. I didn’t realize, okay? It was this guy I was seeing, he was mad at me. I guess he sent the picture to get revenge or whatever.”

“He was pissed because apparently I was not into him sufficiently, so he took my phone while I was in the shower and sent a bunch of text messages. Then he stole my iPod dock and fucked off.” Stiles was wringing his hands- his hands that Derek couldn’t look at anymore because they just reminded him of something else. Stiles had big hands.  

Derek realized then, that everything was taking a dangerous direction. He had been, begrudgingly, kind of giddy for the last two weeks, at the idea that Stiles had maybe sent the picture because he wanted Derek to see it. Obviously that wasn’t the case, and Derek stood a pretty good chance of being humiliated if he didn’t do something soon. So he flattened his hands on the top of the kitchen unit and did his best to smooth out his face.

“Whatever,” he said finally. “Why did you even have the picture on there in the first place?”

Stiles went kind of red, and shoved his glasses up his nose before he answered.

“Well you know, it’s a flattering picture,” he said, smiling. “It’s a good angle.”

Derek just snorted, and tried not to think about the guy who had fucked Stiles and decided he would rather sent a few rude messages and steal an iPod dock than do it again. The idea made him feel angry.

“I was going to make cornbread,” he said, in lieu of anything else. “Is that a good idea?”

“I fucking love cornbread,” Stiles said, hurrying into the kitchen. “Do you have a recipe? My mom made the best cornbread, she used this Martha Stewart recipe, I can get it on my phone.”

So they made cornbread. Halfway through, while they were peering into the top oven watching it rise, Derek realized Stiles was staring at him instead, the top of his thumb trapped between his teeth. It was a nervous gesture that Derek hadn’t seen in a while. 

“Are we cool?” he said. “I mean, about the picture. I don’t want you to- just, we’re pretty good friends, right?”

“Of course,” Derek said, because it was true. Really, apart from Scott, Stiles was the only person Derek felt totally comfortable around at all. “If we weren’t friends, who would I get to give me pointless updates about the L train late at night?”

“Ugh,” Stiles said, grimacing. “Don’t even get me started. The other day I sat down, and my seat was all wet. I thought it was rain, but it was urine. I sat in a puddle of piss, Derek. A puddle of piss.”

  

\---

 

Everyone else turned up at about noon, and by then Derek and Stiles had done a pretty decent job of cooking everything. There had been a few arguments; Stiles was mad at the lack of canned cranberry sauce, Derek had not been able to convince him that making it fresh was better. Someone with non-werewolf reflexes had dropped a tray of green been casserole. A stack of paper napkins had inexplicably gone on fire while Derek had left Stiles in charge of the gravy. Still, the apartment smelled amazing, and Sheriff Stilinski was the first to arrive, with a crate of beer and a bottle of whisky.

“Alan told me how much wolfsbane to put in,” he said. “Made sure I didn’t use the lethal kind this time.”

“What?” Stiles said, dangerously, because he didn’t know that story. Derek just ushered the Sheriff into the lounge before anything else was said. Then came Lydia with her mom, who declared that the apartment looked very festive. Melissa and Scott turned up next, with six different pies, then Isaac and his werewolf girlfriend, who was a vegetarian _of course_  but had at least thought to bring her own nut roast. Derek enjoyed the look on Stiles’ face when he took it off her to go and heat up.

“Can werewolves even be vegetarian?” Stiles whispered, once everyone was settled in front of the TV with drinks and it was just them in the kitchen. 

“Yes. We’re not _actually_   _wolves_ , Stiles,” Derek said. They both reached for the oven door at the same time, probably to check on the turkeys. As they did, their fingers brushed together, long enough for Derek to feel Stiles’ heartbeat pulsing in his fingertips. Derek’s resultant flinch was epic and very obvious. He stood up and walked away to the fridge and pretended to be stacking beer cans more efficiently on the middle shelf.

“Think they need basting again,” Stiles said. His voice sounded flat and unhappy. Derek didn’t quite know what to read into that. 

 

\---

 

When the food was just about ready to be served, Derek took a break and went upstairs to get changed. He felt exhausted, and not in a physical way. Being around Stiles was a constant balancing act, like everything was tensed up in fear of something accidental being said. 

The fact of the matter was, since the picture, Derek had let himself want something from Stiles, something more than just pictures of New York and anecdotes about his shitty late night subway adventures. They had always had a fractious, combative relationship, one that had since settled down recently into an unconventional sort of long distance friendship. 

Derek picked up his phone. The picture was still there, hi-res, because Stiles had one of those ridiculous 4 million megapixel phone cameras so that he could take pictures of his food or whatever. Derek tried to look at it like it was just another dick. He’d seen plenty in the past few years, in club toilets, hotel rooms and anonymous apartments, but he couldn’t really group Stiles with that lot.

For all that it was a picture Stiles had clearly taken for someone else, and had never intended to send to Derek, it felt fucking personal. It felt so personal, it was so uniquely him, that Derek almost could smell him, just by looking at it.

Angry, he deleted it. Above it were the last messages Stiles had sent, before that.

 

_Saw a cat today that looked just like u. I tried to feed it and it bit me_

 

_What inspires a person to wear their pajamas to a lecture at an ivy league school?!!! WHY DEREK_

 

_It’s like minus a billion and raining sleet here I miss california argh_

 

_If I pay u will u fly over here and grade these papers for me?_

 

_One of my students next semester is called PHOENIX BOMBADILL MACGREGOR_ _I am not fuckin with u_

 

Derek kept scrolling. Message after message, little snippets of Stiles’ life, more frequent than he really ever considered. Derek wondered if anyone else got this, or if it was reserved just for him. Another dangerous avenue of thought. He put the phone down, drew in a long, shaky breath, and went to get changed. 

 

\---

 

“This is fucking orgasmic,” Stiles said, mouth full of stuffing, then grimaced when Melissa smacked him around the head. “Sorry, but it totally is.”

“It’s quite good,” Lydia said mildly, like she wasn’t already on her second helping of the rescued green been casserole. “The gravy is nice.”

“The gravy is wonderful,” Melissa confirmed. Scott didn’t say anything, he was too busy stuffing his face full of cornbread. The atmosphere was pretty good, in a totally different way from all of Derek’s childhood Thanksgivings. He had been so completely hung up on how matchless the past was, that he hadn’t even considered enjoying something completely different. 

The Sheriff was telling Isaac about a prank the high-schoolers had pulled on coach Finstock, trying really hard to sound disapproving, and failing miserably. Melissa was pulling bits of stuffing out of Scott’s hair. Lydia was showing Stiles the correct way to hold his knife. Her mom was telling Isaac’s girlfriend about an amazing tofu stir-fry recipe she had discovered. Derek hadn’t poisoned anyone. No-one had smashed any glasses accidentally. So far they hadn’t run out of booze.

Stiles was staring at him. It was a funny sort of a look, sad and hungry all together, and practised, like Stiles had experienced whatever it was he was feeling many times before. He looked weary. Derek turned away and concentrated on his mash. 

 

\---

 

Derek got to sit on the sofa and watch the football with the Stilinskis while everyone else did clean up. It was nice mostly because not one of them were actually fans of the teams involved, which meant it wasn’t emotionally fraught or anything, just generally entertaining.

“Who is playing again?” Stiles said, somewhere in the last quarter, once he had sunk so far into the sofa he was almost horizontal.

“Blue ones versus greeny gold ones,” Derek said, but his eyes were closed so he couldn’t really be sure.

“Shhhh,” the sheriff said, ostensibly because he was trying to watch. Derek knew it was because he was dozing off too.

 

\---

 

When Derek woke up from his totally justified nap, the Sheriff was still sleeping, but Stiles had disappeared. Everyone else was crowded around the dining room table playing canasta. Apparently it was a Martin family Thanksgiving tradition. 

“Do you want to play?” Lydia said, gesturing to the table. “I mean we’re all dealt out, but Scott has no idea what he’s doing so I doubt he’d mind.”

“Help me,” Scott pleaded. Mrs. Martin reached over and adjusted his hand so that the cards weren’t showing. Derek just shook his head. He went upstairs, mostly because it was warm, and he knew his room would be cool, dark and quiet, and most importantly, empty of people. He was wrong. Stiles was up there, sitting on Derek’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. He jumped about a foot in the air when he saw Derek, and nearly brained himself on the bedside table scrambling to his feet.

“Hey, sorry. I just needed a bit of quiet. Didn’t mean to, you know, invade your personal space egregiously.”

Derek shrugged. 

“It’s busy down there,” he said, because he and Stiles were obviously on the same page about that, at least. They stood there, facing each other in the bedroom, and Derek felt the atmosphere in the room change, and everything grow a bit charged and kind of awkward. He didn’t know what to say. 

“What did you mean,” Stiles began carefully. Derek recognized his tone; it was the same one he employed when he assumed what he said was going to get him into trouble. “When you said ‘Are you trying to drive me crazy?’”

“I never said that,” Derek said automatically. Technically, it was true. Stiles frowned.

“Don’t be a dick,” he said. “When you sent me that text about the picture. You said it was driving you crazy.”

Derek just shrugged again. The skin on his face felt too tight, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Usually when everything went this fucking wrong, Stiles came and saved him from his own total inability to communicate properly. Unfortunately, tonight, Stiles was the source of all his problems.

“I used english,” Derek said, and it came out kind of angry. “So you should know _exactly_ what I meant.”

Stiles frowned, and his shoulders hunched up. Derek could almost hear the cogs turning inside his huge brain. This was a man who had graduated _summa cum laude_  from fucking Columbia. He was published at the tender age of 27. Derek knew that because he'd had to help the Sheriff subscribe to and access JSTOR just so he could read and pretend to understand Stiles’ work. His eyes narrowed.

“That guy,” he said eventually. “The one who stole my iPod dock. I met him at this dive bar, he worked in the city or something.”  
  
Derek did not want to know. He _did not want to know_. He didn’t say anything, so Stiles kept talking.

“He seemed pretty cool actually, asked a lot about me, my friends my family. He got mad though, because I kept texting you things. Like, once when we were out on a date I saw that woman vomit out a cab door then close it and keep driving, remember I texted you about that?”

“No,” Derek lied. He remembered. His head was beginning to feel strange, and there was a ringing in his ears, like some emotional catastrophe was happening to him in slow motion and he couldn’t stop it.

“Well, he got really hung up on that. Hung up on you. Thought I was cheating, I guess. Finally it was too much. He wasn’t a very nice person, said some choice things, sent that text message, robbed me. I don’t really have very good taste in men,” Stiles was rubbing at the back of his head, and behind his glasses, his eyelashes fell dark against his pale cheeks. “I don’t have very good taste in men, Derek.”

“Okay,” Derek said, and took one step forward. There was still like six feet between them, but it was a start.

“Well except for you,” Stiles said, quietly. “Except for you, I don’t have very good taste in men.”

He took a step forward. If they kept on like that, they might be in touching distance by morning. Still, Derek didn’t want to rush it. He was feeling all the shifting parts settle down together to reveal the whole picture. It was almost painful, this emotional realization. He had to shove down the instinctive surge of panic he felt in response.

“I’m a 33 year old unemployed werewolf,” he said. “You do have really terrible taste in men.”

Derek knew he had to do something, so he walked the rest of the distance over to Stiles and stood in front of him, close enough that they were almost nose to nose. He couldn’t decide quite how to start, finally settling on raising both hands up to touch Stiles’ face, to span across his jaw and touch his throat and frame his mouth. Derek drew him in and Stiles came willingly, his lips open before they were even kissing.

Even though Derek’s heart was beating rapidly with panic, the kiss was easy, soft and natural. Their mouths moved against each other like this was another way of talking, and Derek felt the edge of Stiles’ glasses press against his cheekbone. Stiles hooked his arms around Derek’s back and curled his fingers into his shirt, and pulled, tugged, coaxed. He was a challenge, a puzzle. When he sighed against Derek’s mouth- well Derek just wanted to keep trying until he could make him do it again. They parted but not far, just enough to look at each other.

“I just took that fucking picture to see what it looked like,” Stiles said, a bit out of breath. “I only kept it because it looked pretty good.”

“I deleted it,” Derek said, disappointed. Stiles responded with a slow push of his hips, pressing them together. Inside his stupid fucking skinny jeans, Derek could feel that he was hard. 

“Well, I can arrange a private view,” Stiles murmured. “A 3D interactive exhibit. A _hands on_ activity-”  
  
Derek kissed him again, to shut him up. 

 

\---

 

Later, when Derek had Stiles all stretched out on the bed, he thought about stopping, taking a picture then. Stiles looked like something mythological, he was so beautiful, just pale skin forever, and muscles shivering in his stomach, and his gorgeous big dick all red and full of blood, curving up against his belly towards his hip. His eyes looked calm, hooded and fixed on Derek, but his fingers were all twisted up in the comforter and his hips kept twitching, needy.

“You’re gorgeous,” Derek said, kind of hopelessly. He didn’t know how else to express it.

“I’m - I can’t even-” Stiles grimaced and reached out. “Come here, you.”

Derek did, curling close until there wasn’t much space between him at all. Everything lined up just perfectly when he did, making them both moan. Stiles kissed him, still trying to talk, managing little fragments of words here and there. He broke away for a moment, licked his palm.

“Wanted to do this for-fucking-ever,” he said, looking pretty wicked.

“Fuck,” Derek managed, because Stiles had gathered them both up in his slick palm, and was jacking them both off, loosely, loose enough that they could both thrust into it, pressed together. Everything got wetter, hotter, and Derek could only push his sweaty forehead against Stiles’ and pant into the space between his neck and his shoulder.

“So good,” Stiles was saying, his other hand buried in Derek’s hair. “So fucking good for me, Derek. You’re so good, come on, come on-”

He made a choked little noise, then a pent up groan that sounded like it was torn from all the way down inside. Derek felt the way he shivered as he came, and that was enough, just the idea of Stiles having an orgasm, the hot spill of it, to tip him over as well. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles said afterwards. He sounded like he was grinning. Derek didn’t know for sure because he had his face pressed into Stiles’ neck. He smelled- _amazing_ did not actually do it justice. He smelled like the greatest thing ever and Derek didn’t want to move.

“Stop huffing my neck big boy, we have to clean up a bit,” Stiles said after a stretch of time had passed. Reluctantly, Derek pulled away, kissing the parts of Stiles he passed as he went; his shoulder, his jaw, his wrist.

They cleaned up, but didn’t get dressed yet, stretching out on the bed instead. Stiles used Derek’s shoulder as a pillow and started tracing patterns all over his chest. The casual, easy intimacy of it made Derek felt hot inside, and happy.

“I like you,” he said, because he felt it needed to be explicitly stated. Stiles stretched and smiled into his shoulder and began drawing spirals with his fingertips. 

“I got that,” he said. “I like you too. Should have sent you a picture of my cock earlier.”

Derek hummed in agreement. Then a thought struck him.

“By the way,” he said, putting one palm on Stiles’ head, stroking down his hair until he could feel the curve of his skull. “This whole thanksgiving thing is your fault. I only had to host it because you sent me that dick picture.”

“Whaat?” Stiles said, sounding sleepy. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Your fault,” Derek confirmed. He could just pull up the comforter and they could sleep all night. He went to reach for it, and his cellphone buzzed on the bedside table.

“Urgh, blah,” Stiles said, stretching an arm out to grab it. He held it up to Derek who wasn’t entirely sure why he even cared enough to check it. When he did though, the message was from Lydia.

 

_Are you done fucking? Scott desperately needs help with canasta, it’s getting embarrassing._

 

Derek thought about it for a while, looked down at Stiles, who was almost gone, dozing with his open mouth pressed against Derek’s chest, and his face still flushed blotchy red. He had pincer marks on his nose from where his glasses had been sitting. His neck was already coming up in stubble rash from Derek’s beard. 

“Hey,” Derek whispered. “Do you want to go and play cards with the others?”

Stiles smiled, his eyes flickered open, and Derek thought, kind of hopelessly, _I really fucking love you_.

“Of course I do,” Stiles said. “We can cheat. Scott’s shit at telling if anyone is cheating. Even with the werewolf thing.”

So they got dressed and went downstairs and played fucking cards. Because it was Thanksgiving.

 

\---

 

A week later, Stiles headed back to New York, but not before he and Derek fucked on every horizontal surface in the apartment, and up against most of the walls too. More than that though, they spent every free second together, and Stiles stayed over so much that the bed smelled like him, the sofa smelled like him, all the towels too. Derek realized a few things; he was really, really fond of dicks, and totally, absurdly in love with Stiles. They talked about that, they talked about everything really, except what was going to happen when Stiles went home. 

The day Stiles left it rained, which Derek thought was pretty fucking typical, because it was too wet for him to even go into the preserve and throw big rocks angrily into canyons.

 

\---

 

Derek was at Flannagan’s again with Scott when Stiles sent the next picture. They were talking about the stupid west coast pack meeting, which was looming. Derek had conceded and said he would go, but now Scott was stressing out over whether they should wear suits or not, and all sorts of other meaningless things that just irritated Derek. He had much bigger problems.Stiles hadn’t sent him a text message for something like six hours.

“You need to move to New York or something,” Scott said eventually. “This is fucking embarrassing. For you.”

Derek’s phone buzzed, and he snatched it so quickly it almost went flying into Scott’s pint glass. The minute he opened up the message he immediately regretted it, because Scott was peering over his shoulder and that was not an image meant for sharing.

“Aww god!” Scott recoiled, stumbling back onto his stool. “My eyes! Why did you let me see that? It can never be unseen!”

“Did you know Stiles had applied for a job at Berkeley?” Derek said, slowly, because the picture was nothing compared to the attached message. 

“Uh yeah, duh, why did you think he was back so early before Thanksgiving? He had an interview,” Scott had finished his beer and was helping himself to Derek’s. Derek didn’t even care. The beer was nothing. He didn’t need ever beer anymore.

 

_Got a job @berkeley coming back to CA ETA dec 21st. P.S im staying with u for a bit my dad has turned my room into a study_

 

“That’s so nice, I’m happy for you,” Scott said, hovering again. “But I still don’t understand why he had to attach it to a picture of his cock.”

 

 


End file.
